respectful eyes fell upon him.
'The noonday sun, Captain.'
An hour later, the sun already searing, Devlin stood on the quarterdeck with Toombs, Black Bill and Peter Sam. The starboard-bow anchor was coming up and men hung over the yardarms like pegs on a washline, waiting for orders.
Below stood four men, including Sam Fletcher, arguing about where the half-hour glass should be tied. Fletcher was a deserter the crew had picked up in Providence before Devlin came aboard, and he still wore the calico and wool uniform. Devlin did not care for him, but he hoped he still had enough of the whistle piped into him to keep watch, and he had promised each man a twist of tobacco if they worked through this. Toombs agreed to the tobacco, in his own interests, naturally.
'What time do you have there, Captain?' Devlin asked, the backstaff's sighting to his eye. The instrument itself was longer than a musketoon, the sun was to his back and he prayed for a shadow to fall in the horizon vane to qualify his stance upon the deck as the last crank of the capstan dragging up the anchor rang in his ears.
'That's eleven fifty-six as I believe it to be.'
'That's good enough.' He kissed the backstaff, its numbers gladdening his heart, her wooden degrees his psalms as Coxon had taught him. 'Latitude as it was. Set that watch for noon and give it to me.'
Toombs passed the watch, receiving the backstaff in return.
'I will check it according to the sands, Captain.' His calm countenance broke and he yelled below, 'Fletcher, turn that glass, man!'
And it began.
Devlin approached the deck and yelled forward, 'Keep those sheets out of the wind now, lads! Make sail! Mister Vernon?'
'Aye, sir?' Black Bill heard himself say.
'Chip log, if you please, Bill. Any sail you have to give me seven knots.'
'Aye, aye, Patrick,' and he was away, down the waist of the ship, pushing men out of his path, yelling his strange calls.
'Mister Phillips!' Devlin's eyes caught the bosun staring up at him from below.
'Aye, Pat?'
'Lifts and braces, if you please, Little John. Follow Bill!'
'Aye, sir!' and away he ran.
Devlin turned to face Toombs's querying look, and Peter Sam's dark face.
'Don't be so keen to yell out orders on my ship, Patrick.' Toombs raised his chin. 'These are my men.'
The rattling and luffing of the sails filled the air. A fury of shouts and hauling followed from the fore, and the jib was backed until the Lucy slowly began to drift. Peter, at the helm, swung the wheel hard to larboard and the terrible lurch one never got used to pitched the horizon round. The Lucy heeled up, showing three more of her starboard staves, the shadows of the masts falling aft, sweeping across the deck.
Toombs stood back to watch his sails fill. For the next quarter-hour the narrow deck was a dance of activity. Lanyards were secured, halyards tied, and all the while the Lucy grabbed the wind. Her bow plunged and rose, playfully spraying anyone fore with a light, warm rain.
Beneath her keel a pair of marlins kept chase through the azure sea, and the 'porkers' that had been circling them for days returned to the depths, sated only by Alastair Lewis's corpulence.
Black Bill ascended to the taffrail aft of the ship with the drogue, the wooden board that would carry the log. One of his mates held the heavy reel of rope that would pay out behind the Lucy. Without a word between them, the drogue was tossed to the sea.
The progress seemed fast as the spray hit their faces from all sides, but that was only the joy of the Lucy letting go under courses and topsails after sitting as she had been for two long days.
A fraction under thirty seconds later and the tiny sand-timer held in Bill's hand emptied. He closed his fist on the line.
'Six knots, Patrick!' Bill shouted over his shoulder. The triangle of Devlin, Toombs and Peter Sam stood at different points on the quarterdeck.
'The noonday sun, Captain.'
An hour later, the sun already searing, Devlin stood on the quarterdeck with Toombs, Black Bill and Peter Sam. The starboard-bow anchor was coming up and men hung over the yardarms like pegs on a washline, waiting for orders.
Below stood four men, including Sam Fletcher, arguing about where the half-hour glass should be tied. Fletcher was a deserter the crew had picked up in Providence before Devlin came aboard, and he still wore the calico and wool uniform. Devlin did not care for him, but he hoped he still had enough of the whistle piped into him to keep watch, and he had promised each man a twist of tobacco if they worked through this. Toombs agreed to the tobacco, in his own interests, naturally.
'What time do you have there, Captain?' Devlin asked, the backstaff's sighting to his eye. The instrument itself was longer than a musketoon, the sun was to his back and he prayed for a shadow to fall in the horizon vane to qualify his stance upon the deck as the last crank of the capstan dragging up the anchor rang in his ears.
'That's eleven fifty-six as I believe it to be.'
'That's good enough.' He kissed the backstaff, its numbers gladdening his heart, her wooden degrees his psalms as Coxon had taught him. 'Latitude as it was. Set that watch for noon and give it to me.'
Toombs passed the watch, receiving the backstaff in return.
'I will check it according to the sands, Captain.' His calm countenance broke and he yelled below, 'Fletcher, turn that glass, man!'
And it began.
Devlin approached the deck and yelled forward, 'Keep those sheets out of the wind now, lads! Make sail! Mister Vernon?'
'Aye, sir?' Black Bill heard himself say.
'Chip log, if you please, Bill. Any sail you have to give me seven knots.'
'Aye, aye, Patrick,' and he was away, down the waist of the ship, pushing men out of his path, yelling his strange calls.
'Mister Phillips!' Devlin's eyes caught the bosun staring up at him from below.
'Aye, Pat?'
'Lifts and braces, if you please, Little John. Follow Bill!'
'Aye, sir!' and away he ran.
Devlin turned to face Toombs's querying look, and Peter Sam's dark face.
'Don't be so keen to yell out orders on my ship, Patrick.' Toombs raised his chin. 'These are my men.'
The rattling and luffing of the sails filled the air. A fury of shouts and hauling followed from the fore, and the jib was backed until the Lucy slowly began to drift. Peter, at the helm, swung the wheel hard to larboard and the terrible lurch one never got used to pitched the horizon round. The Lucy heeled up, showing three more of her starboard staves, the shadows of the masts falling aft, sweeping across the deck.
Toombs stood back to watch his sails fill. For the next quarter-hour the narrow deck was a dance of activity. Lanyards were secured, halyards tied, and all the while the Lucy grabbed the wind. Her bow plunged and rose, playfully spraying anyone fore with a light, warm rain.
Beneath her keel a pair of marlins kept chase through the azure sea, and the 'porkers' that had been circling them for days returned to the depths, sated only by Alastair Lewis's corpulence.
Black Bill ascended to the taffrail aft of the ship with the drogue, the wooden board that would carry the log. One of his mates held the heavy reel of rope that would pay out behind the Lucy. Without a word between them, the drogue was tossed to the sea.
The progress seemed fast as the spray hit their faces from all sides, but that was only the joy of the Lucy letting go under courses and topsails after sitting as she had been for two long days.
A fraction under thirty seconds later and the tiny sand-timer held in Bill's hand emptied. He closed his fist on the line.
'Six knots, Patrick!' Bill shouted over his shoulder. The triangle of Devlin, Toombs and Peter Sam stood at different points on the quarterdeck.
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